


Mourning

by Green



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-17
Updated: 2010-03-17
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Green/pseuds/Green
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Dead Things. Buffy had nowhere to run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mourning

The world is cold and bitter-bright. The ugliness hurts your eyes, and you want to escape, but there's nowhere to run, not now, not ever. There was nowhere to run from the past when you tried a few years ago, and there's nowhere to run from your death. You wish you could run _to_ your death, but there are faces here that smile and bodies that cling, and tears that fall and voices that say 'Buffy, Buffy I missed you so much.' and 'We need you so much.' and 'We love you.' So you stay and try to deal with the wretchedness.

You try to make your way back to the life you were supposed to lead, but there is always something standing in your way, always something keeping you back, like your anger, your pain. There's something inside of you now that won't let you look at the world the same way again. Fighting evil seems like a pointless cliche. But you do. They cheer, because that is what _they_ do.

You run to him, and he pushes your hair back from your face and looks at you like you are all of creation in one package, and for a second you think that maybe this is love. But then you hurt him, and you know that you aren't allowed to love.

***

You dream in color. Blood drenched film clips of your past, playing nonstop in a dizzying loop. Screams, cries, pain, terror -- Willow and Xander and Giles and Tara and Angel and Dawn and Spike; everyone gets hurt and killed and stabbed and gutted. When you wake you can't remember which really happened and which is just hell.

Or maybe they are lying. Maybe this really _is_ hell, and you deserve it because you were happy and complete when you jumped off that tower.

 

***

She smells like hope and life, and it pushes away the stench of ash and liquor and blood that's been hiding in your head.

You don't know why, only that she's soft and sweet, and when you lick your lips and stare at hers she doesn't pull away.

You close your eyes just as tightly as you can, and her kiss feels like crying. Like letting go.

She touches your hair, your skin, like she's touching something ancient. Like you are fragile and valuable and might break at any moment.

You've already broken. She doesn't know this.

You lift a hand to her cheek, and that's when you see the rust colored smears on your knuckles. You drop your hand again because you don't want to see that violence touch this peace.

You don't know what to do. You want _something_, but what exactly you don't know how to put into words. Do words exist somewhere to describe the way she makes you feel? Is there a word that means flying, and safe, and home, and soft and warm and tender and free? You can't say those words, they sound too silly and childish in your head. But she's looking into your eyes with understanding, so maybe she knows without you speaking.

***

You try to be tender with her, but there's frustration and hurt underneath your skin, and it comes out without you wanting it to. But she doesn't wince, doesn't make a sound when your fingers clutch around her arms too tightly, and her gasp sounds like pleasure when you nip her shoulder enough to draw blood.

She moves against you with ease, and it doesn't matter that you don't know what to do, or how to give, because she knows. She slides beneath your touch and arches up, and for a little while, you might be almost happy.

You want to tell her something when her tongue is sweeping against your hard nipples, but you don't know what to say. You wish you had some emotion left inside of you, so that you could share it right then, but your mind is a blank, and the space underneath her flat palm where your heart should be is empty and cold.

She's gentle with you, even though you've forgotten years ago how to be gentle with anyone. Maybe she's trying to teach you. Maybe she thinks she can heal you. Maybe she can.

She's breathing heavily when you touch her _there_, and you're half hesitant, half frenzied, and she gasps and holds her breath until she must be dizzy. Or maybe it's really you who is dizzy.

She tastes different than you thought, different than you. But it's not unpleasant, and you try to figure out how to go about this. She guides your fingers and groans at a certain sweep of your tongue, and this helps to let you know what you're supposed to do. For a minute you forget that the world is sour and diseased, just for a minute, but then it's back right before she comes.

This really isn't the answer to anything.

But then suddenly that doesn't matter, because she's between your legs, returning the favor ten times more expertly than you.

You float up, insulated with electricity. You're numb and charged and super-sensitive all at the same time. Is that even possible?

You like the feel of her hair as it brushes against your thighs.

***

After, the bedroom is completely quiet except for your breathing and hers. That, and the rushing of blood in your head.

You don't look at her, just stare at the ceiling.

'It's okay' she says. But it's not. You've used someone, again, to feel. It was a different feeling, this time, but that doesn't change what it means.

You're wrong.

'Please don't forgive me,' you whisper.


End file.
